Wednesday, March 02, 2011

256 the End

I wrote this poem earlier this week while I was reading Wired magazine and waiting for my Dad to come out of surgery, which is only the inspiration... the emotion in the poem comes from the idea that too much of a good thing can be too much of that thing--and that if we sit comfortably for too long, then we may sit comfortably for the rest of our lives.

Image by gematrium via FlickrWaiting for the man--Long past his high-scoring days--To get up from his winged chairThe clock no longer ticksThe room wears a living sash--Ghosts of ethnicity's chameleon--Dressed over a televisionThat repeats the soundOf Pac's opening actWith each quarter they meet

An endless plume waftsFrom a leather-caged pyreAs teeth chatter relentlesslyAt an end table of expired pelletsJust out of reachIce meets a warm demiseIn a untouched glassThat waits for an intermission--Oak-aged water for the thirsty beast--That comes only with deathNo one lives through 256.